The rec room is empty when Ralat pokes his head in, which is the way he likes it: no Delerno to be found. He makes his way over to the dejarik table--it hasn't worked since he's been aboard, but it's a fine spot for a few rounds of solitaire pazaak. He lights a cigarra, which attempts to make the room smell even more like smoke than it already does and fails miserably, and hums to himself as he plays.

The ship's doctor walks into the rec room next. His hands are in the pockets of the old, ratty, lab coat he's wearing. Brown stains, probably old blood that never washed out, are uncomfortably visible. The doc doesn't seem to mind since it probably wasn't his blood. The medical visor that he insists on wearing even when it's not needed is propped up on his head, like a fashionable pair of sunglasses. He's smiling, which is probably bad for someone.

Yakoran: "The Captain just asked me to fix up his leg again," he says by way of starting a conversation. Yakoran: "He asked me to cut off someone else's leg while they slept through the night and attach it to his leg. Something he read about an urban legend involving tubs of ice and body organs, he thought it might be possible. I told him, 'Dammit, I'm a Doctor, not a golem maker!' That seemed to calm him down."

Doctor Schen was always going around proclaim that he was a Doctor, not a *insert something here*. It was his favorite way to get out of work.

Ralat doesn't even look up from his game. "Not my problem," he says, throwing another card on the table. "Damn bastard doesn't even think Neimoidians are people. Keeps calling me 'colonial.' Don't give a fork myself, but apparently it's a big deal to him." Ralat takes a drag from his cigarra and blows it outwards.

Carandil was in the hangar, humming a jaunty tune while he worked with a sharp knife and sheet of flimsiplast, carving a silhouette of a TIE fighter into the flimsi. With the roll of mesh tape and can of spray paint alos on hand, it looked like somebody was aboutt to start adding kill markers...

Ralat wanders in; he's got nothing else to do right now, so he's going to his default: finicking with his fighter. Carandil gives him pause, though. "Whatcha building there, smoothskin?" he asks, without much heart behind it.

"Stencil," Carandil said. "If the last batch was any indication of how far the mighty Imperial Navy has fallen, then I'm gonna rack up more kills than I'll have time to paint by hand. So I slap this up to the hull and spray instead," raising the flimsi to demonstrate.

Visistis wandered into the hangar, his antennae twitching gently in the direction of the two other pirates. His chittery voice almost echoed in the now far emptier bay than they were ever used to before.

"There is not definitive evidence that Imperial personnel were stationed on that ck-ck-cargo container. Their ships, weapons, and armor could have been salvaged from an abandoned or assaulted Imperial garrison. The stormtroopers did fight with precision and some discipline, but if the pilots were graduates of the Naval Academy, their sk-sk-skill suggests a two to one odds they were cadets or junior flight officers."

The Verpine inspects Ralat's ship from a distant, before looking back to Carandil. "I equate our mission success due to surprise and the illusion of overwhelming force. We did not possess sufficient arms or armaments to assault that facility if their defense web had been tighter."

Visistis glances back to Ralat's fighter, then him.

"I still do have a suitable replacement for your secondary power coupler. I rk-rk-recommend not exceeding ninety-five percent thrust speed until our mechanical bay can be refurbished."

"But seriously, their arms, insignia, and doctrine was all Empire, and their leader is one of those pompous self-styled warlords-that's as Imperial as you get these days. It's not like they're all one big scummy family under Palps anymore."